


Place We Could Escape

by golden_redhead



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Spoilers, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-25
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-19 07:15:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19970113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_redhead/pseuds/golden_redhead
Summary: “I’m sure Team Danganronpa is so deeply concerned about our well being,” he says, words practically dripping with sarcasm so thick it makes his voice sound weird even in his own ears. “Surely this is what they’ve been concerned about the most when they put us in a killing game.”Her smile is unwavering as she looks him up and down, “Saihara-san,” she says, as polite as ever, “I assure you that even though you may not remember it now you’ve been made aware of the consequences of participating in the killing game and being put in the simulation before signing the contract. If you wish to take a look at your signature it can be arranged shortly.”His lips pull in a pale, thin line.“That won’t be necessary.”---A.K.A. A long road to recovery of people who never expected to live again.





	Place We Could Escape

**Author's Note:**

> Ever since I finished the game and got into writing to this fandom I wanted to write a fic dealing with V3 characters' development in a post-game Virtual Reality AU scenario. But instead of wrtiing I've been always coming up with excuses or giving up soon after I started. But recently I decided that's enough, so... here we are!
> 
> This story contains major spoilers to the entire game. The relationship tags might change but my main goal is to have everyone interact with everyone and to explore how they feel about each other in this kind of scenario, how their relationships develop and how they would interact after everything that happened. There's also more to the main storyline than meets the eye but it's something you'll find out soon enough if you keep reading ;)

Waking up is the easy part. It’s what comes after that’s hard. 

She blinks through the fog clouding her brain, machinery hissing and humming all around her when the lid above her head finally opens and moves to the side, freeing her from her self-imposed trap. 

“Shirogane-san?” a voice calls out from above and she blinks, once, then twice.

_ Ah, finally _ , she thinks blearily when memories slowly come back to her, a small smile forming on her lips. An unfamiliar face of a nurse pops up above her head, asking if she’s alright, asking if she needs her assistance, but she pays it no mind, sorting through her dazed thoughts carefully.

The fifty-third season of Danganronpa is officially over. Hope triumphed over despair once more. 

Shirogane giggles, soft and giddy, excitement swelling in her chest when all of that finally sinks in. 

She did good, right? 

She sits up abruptly, something she regrets seconds later when her head spins and the world along with it, but it’s not a problem, it really isn’t, and her grin is wider than ever. 

She flexes her fingers experimentally, muscles weak from the weeks of misuse, an unpleasant side effect that’s not going to last long, so there’s no point in worrying about it. She raises her arm, ignores the slight tremor and snaps her fingers. A nurse is by her side in a second, attentive and ready to serve. Good.

“Get me a wheelchair,” Shirogane rasps out weakly, struggling to force her weak body out of the pod. She licks her lips. “There’s still work to do.”

*

One clothes change, two hours and three coffees later, Shirogane watches, wide-eyed, as the pod in the furthest corner buzzes to life and the process of releasing its occupant begins. 

Excitement bubbles in her chest and she fights down the urge to let out a very embarrassing and very unprofessional squeal that builds up in her throat and threatens to escape. It’s all so exciting, the rush of adrenaline, the tingling sensation of anticipation tingling beneath her skin. It’s a final wrap-up, the finish line of what’s been in the making for months, years even! She’s been dreaming of this moment for so long, a fragile precious dream she’s been keeping close to her heart ever since she’s seen her very first episode of Danganronpa, the one that’s been there while she was fighting her way through the insane requirements and procedures to finally be qualified enough to apply for the position of a mastermind. She’s sacrificed everything there’s been to sacrifice to be where she is now. 

They start with the survivors as they usually tend to be the easiest to be pulled out, nurses swarming around Yumeno’s pod, excited ruckus of their hushed conversations filling the space, bare sans for the sixteen pods. 

When the first shock passes and nurses sit her on the ground, running around to check her vitals Yumeno is sobbing, streams of tears and snot rolling down her face as she grasps at her sleeves and tries to wipe her nose in it pitifully. A shiver of disgust crawls down Shirogane’s back. Yumeno was the kind of survivor that made it in nearly every season, a stereotypical weakling that survives solely thanks to others, not bringing anything new to the game but representing all of these fans who believe they have nothing to offer. And, well, they are not wrong. She’s well aware of just how much fans enjoy seeing themselves in the characters that make it to the end, it opens endless opportunities for projection and so she chose her survivors wisely. If there’s one thing Shirogane ever wanted it’s to give the fans what they wished for, be the mastermind who went above and beyond to entertrain, bring back the very soul of the show that has been missing in the past few seasons. She fought tooth and nail to be here, to stand here and watch as her great future unfolds before her eyes and she is here to stay.

After all, now that she’s tasted how it feels to be the mastermind she isn’t about to let go. 

Next comes Saihara’s turn and even all the way from where she stands she can see the deep lines of confusion and panic painted all over his face when the lid of the pod lifts and reveals his sickly pale face, eyes wide and and darting all over the room in search of some sort of exit as he pushes against the hands reaching out to him and gasps for air, a desperate choked up sound.

She cast one last wistful glance at her little survivors, still dazed and confused, knowing she can’t stay here, not when there’s so much more to do, new responsibilities awaiting her attention, the end of the season just as hectic as the beginning, if not more. 

She crosses the dark corridors of the hospital, humming the familiar tune of Danganronpa’s theme song under her breath, giddy and a little lightheaded with happiness. She feels drunk on the sense of fulfillment, her heart fluttering happily in her chest. 

The key to her little office turns easily and with a quiet sigh she opens the door and flicks on the lights only to be greeted by the familiar sight of the place where she used to bring hee characters to life, shape and bend the reality until it unravels before her, kept clean during her absence. She slowly approaches her desk, a Monokuma plushie perched on top of it, right next to a pile of papers for her to sign and arrange. From now on it's all work work work, late evenings spent leaning over her desk, writing raport after raport, until her back aches in protest and eyes cloud with exhaustion. 

It’s on the third day since she shut herself in her little office, leaving only to use the bathroom and to attend the meetings with various representatives of Team Danganronpa that someone dares to interrupt her work, intrusive knocking on the door pulling her out from her thoughts abruptly and sending a spark of dull irritation through her veins.

Seconds later, a head of a girl peeks inside, her tousled hair sticking in every direction. Shirogane recognizes her as one of the nurses. 

The girl slips into the room and bows her head politely, back straight and voice quiet. “Ma’am, I am awfully sorry to interrupt but there is a problem that requires your attention.”

Shirogane waves at her impatiently. “What is it?”

The girl straightens up and her voice shakes when she speaks up. 

“It’s one of the participants.”

*

Saihara draws in a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, clenches and unclenches his fists. The nervousness is spiraling in his gut, tension built up in his narrow shoulders and mouth bone dry. He fidgets, the hard surface of the simple, wooden chair he’s been sat on digging into his skin. He struggles to tune out the murmur of hushed conversations in the room, the stares boring into his face, the judgment in them almost palpable. He almost jumps when a small warm hand reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, muddy gold eyes snapping open in an instant and a small gasp slipping through the bruised lips he’s been gnawing at nervously. It’s Harukawa’s watchful, piercing gaze that his eyes meet when he whirls his head in that direction. She arches her eyebrow at him, her unvoiced question of ‘are you alright?’ hanging in the air. He swallows thickly around the lump locked low in his throat and offers her a quick, jerky nod, not quite trusting his voice just yet. Her eyes rest on his face for a second longer until they finally drift away, just in time to turn to the woman clothed in black entering the room, Tsumugi Shirogane following closely, black folder clenched in her hand and a small, plastic smile plastered on her face. 

Saihara wants really badly to feel anything when their eyes cross briefly but all there is is a numb bundle of nerves where the anger should be. 

“Looks like everyone’s here,” she clasps her hands, looking around the room, taking a second to look at every participant of the fifty-third season of Danganronpa until it slips to another person. “Then let’s begin.”

No one comments on Ouma’s more than evident absence. 

“As you are aware, you’ve been chosen to participate in the fifty-third season of Danganronpa, a killing game reality show,” Shirogane starts casually, her tone dripping confidence. There’s not a trace of the inconspicuous girl hiding behind her plainness, that girl gone and replaced by a ruthless woman, head held high and eyes cold and daring. 

Since some of them took longer to wake up than the others, she takes her time to explain once more all the details and nuances of the situation they’re in. Saihara listens passively, having heard the story more than once, part of it when he was still trapped in the game, Harukawa and Yumeno by his side, and the other when he was retrieved from his pod, shaking and scared, his head swirling with questions.

None of it makes sense, even if memories slowly flood back into his brain, an unvoiced confirmation of Shirogane’s words. So what if the story she’s telling them makes sense, if when he squints his eyes at her he can still see the pink shade of blood splattering after the boulder that descents only to crush her body with a sickening sound of cracking bones. Saihara is tired, tired of death and the scent of blood following him everywhere, sticking to his skin permanently, no matter how hard he scrubs his skin in the shower until it turns angry red. He doesn’t want to believe in virtual realities, not if it there’s a chance that it’s just another dream his mind conjured out of wishful thinking, some kind of defense mechanism created to deal with trauma and ever present nightmares. It’s been almost a week since he’s been freed from the confinement of his pod, given more time than anyone here to let it all sink in, to make some sense out of this crazy, unbelievable situation, but the more time passes, the more confused he gets, unable to comprehend any of this. 

He looks to the side and sees his classmates… no, that’s wrong. They aren’t his classmates. They were never his classmates. 

It doesn’t feel real,  _ none of it feels real. _ Not so long ago -- or maybe it was a lifetime ago already? -- he would have given everything to see them all again. It felt so utterly and profoundly wrong when he emerged from a rubble of rocks with only Maki and Himiko at his side, when it should have been all sixteen of them.

Now, however, when they’re all here, real and alive… He feels trapped, as if there’s a hand clasped around his lungs, one that keeps tightening until his vision swims with black dots and his chest burns. He can feel the guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach and keeps his head stubbornly bowed, eyes fixed on his shoes so he doesn’t have to face the look in their face, in fear of what he could see there. 

When Shirogane (Saihara can’t bring himself to call her Tsumugi) finishes speaking there’s a heavy silence hanging low among them. It doesn’t last long however, the heavy with tension silence interrupted by enthusiastic clapping, the sound of it so sharp and sudden that Saihara can’t help but search for the source of it, his eyes finally landing on Yonaga. 

“Thanks be to god!” She exclaims cheerfully, her eyes wide and clear, bright like the morning sky. “In his endless wisdom and generosity he brought us all together to celebrate the end of the game together! Let’s rejoice.”

Disgust.

It’s disgust swirling in his eyes and tugging at his insides when he looks at her, listens to her unbroken faith in an non-existent god. The same faith that let her die, left her in a puddle of pitch black ink spilling over her snow white hair, a memory still strikingly clear, trapped underneath Saihara’s eyelids whenever he looks at her. 

He refuses to acknowledge the fact that her hands are shaking or that the smile on her face would have looked strained if only he bothered to look closer.

Still, Shirogane responds to her enthusiasm with a brilliant smile, jerking her head in a quick nod of approval. 

“Yes, let’s rejoice,” she agrees easily and then raises her finger warningly. “But before that there’s some stuff that needs to be taken care of. As per the contract you signed before entering the game, you are required to undergo therapy and be under the strict care of doctors who are there to ensure that you can, ah,” she pauses, pushing her glasses higher on her nose, forehead wrinkling when she searches for the right word, “go back to your former lives.”

Saihara scoffs, fists clenched tightly, fingernails digging into the soft skin and marking crescent-like imprints on his palms. She makes it sound so simple, go back to their former lives… What does that even mean? Is there even anything to go back to? 

He doesn’t know and it’s a scary thought, scary in its realness. 

Shirogane offers him no answers, no reassurance, and simply continues. “Team Danganronpa provides you with a place to stay, therapy and each of you will be assigned an agent who will oversee your presence in media once the time for that comes. Until the start of the next season you are required to attend fan meetings, interviews and other events held by Team Danganronpa that are meant to promote the series. Once all of you recover enough to be allowed visitations from people outside the hospital, we will begin to work on photoshoots and interviews, so keep that in mind.”

A snort passes through his lips before he could think, his face scrunching up in an ugly grimace, one that feels foreign and yet strangely fitting on his face. 

Shirogane turns, blinking down at him, the ever polite smile -- that infuriating one that he hates hates  _ hates _ \-- plastered on her lips in fake permanence.

“Saihara-san.” She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Is something the matter? The time for questions is reserved for later.”

“I’m sure Team Danganronpa is so deeply concerned about our well being,” he says, words practically dripping with sarcasm so thick it makes his voice sound weird even in his own ears. “Surely this is what they’ve been concerned about the most when they put us in a killing game.”

Her smile is unwavering as she looks him up and down, “Saihara-san,” she says, as polite as ever, “I assure you that even though you may not remember it now you’ve been made aware of the consequences of participating in the killing game and being put in the simulation before signing the contract. If you wish to take a look at your signature it can be arranged shortly.” 

His lips pull in a pale, thin line. 

“That won’t be necessary.”

He stands up and pushes away the chair he was sitting on with a screeching sound, palm clasped around his mouth before any more words he would later regret could spill out.

His legs carry him on their own when he runs out of the room before anyone could make a move to stop him, everyone stunned into silence. Once out of the room he turns right and runs, runs until he reaches the corner and then his knees betray him and hit the floor and he retches, retches until his throat burns raw with guilt. 

  
  


*

  
  


If Ryoma thought that he was alone in the game then he was so utterly, horribly wrong. Nothing would prepare him to the bone deep loneliness he feels now in this room full of people that he used to know in the world so different from this one. He feels a sense of dissociation as he looks at them, faces familiar and yet so awfully foreign, alien in his eyes. 

He tries to focus on Shirogane’s words, he really tries, but he just can't wrap his head around it, not yet, because who knows what will come next once he lets the reality sink in. 

He feels calm.

It’s the kind of calm that scares him. It feels like the quiet before the storm, as if everything will just fall down around him as soon as he dares to start to accept or get over it, leaving him scrambling for any sense of control once it finally comes. 

Shirogane talks and talks and talks and none of it makes sense and he wishes he had something to chew on because maybe then he could simply focus on the sensation and it all would be slightly more bearable.

And then Saihara stands up abruptly and runs out of the room, his face pale and limbs stiff, some kind of innate, desperation painted all over his features.

No one dares to move, no one rushes after him to check whether he’s fine or not. Ryoma can’t help but agree with Iruma’s ostentatiously loud ‘what a drama queen’ whisper that earns her a nasty glare from Momota and an absent-minded nod from Akamatsu. 

Shirogane looks after him, clearly taken aback by the sudden commotion. Irritation flashes through her eyes briefly, as if bothered or even offended that Saihara dared to interrupt her mid-speech, before the polite smile finds its way back on her face, albeit a little strained. After a second she seems to compose herself enough to continue, clearing her throat loudly and looking back at them.

“Well,” she straightens up and throws them a confident, daring look, as if provoking them to even try doing what Saihara did. “Since we’ve already been interrupted, are there any more questions regarding anything I’ve said so far?”

There’s a moment of silence again and Ryoma drags his eyes over the pale faces of the other participants of the fifty third season of Danganronpa. Most of them look confused and still not truly present in the room and he can't blame them, especially the ones who were stuck in the game far longer than he did. He was lucky to be pulled out relatively early but it is a small relief. Some part of him wonders if this is exactly why Shirogane gathered them all so quickly, when so many of them are still too out of it to truly protest or question the situation, too dazed to truly understand what is going on. 

They’ve been forced to sit in a circle, some of them put on uncomfortable wooden chairs, others still trapped in wheelchairs, muscles weak and unresponsive, their own traitorous bodies fighting against them. His legs still ache whenever he uses them for too long, the journey from his room to the place of the meeting agonizing as he was forcing his useless, wobbly legs to take one step at a time, nearly snapping when the nurse assigned to assist him rushed to him worriedly, asking whether he’d prefer to have her bring his wheelchair. 

Yumeno’s eyes are still plastered to the door Saihara disappeared behind minutes ago, dark and hollow and surprisingly aware, so unlike the sleepy, soaked with boredom stare he remembers from when this hell first started. Briefly, Ryoma remembers they both — Saihara and she — were both survivors of this season, at least if the excited murmurs of conversations between the nurses he managed to catch here and there were to be believed. He wasn’t all that interested in finding out how the game proceeded after his early death and he’s fairly sure that the less he knows, the better it is for him. He isn’t interested in listening to any of the shit Shirogane is feeding them with, only putting up with this farce out of necessity — as they were not allowed to simply not come — and out of curiosity as for when he’ll be allowed to leave this rotten place. 

Harukawa sits close to Yumeno, the last of three survivors, and her eyes are like daggers, cold and sharp and just as deadly, and they don’t drift away from Shirogane’s face even for a second, piercing through her mask of effortless, plastic politeness with fierce determination. She’s as still as a wild animal, lying in wait, and he hopes he’ll never cross her way in fear of what would happen. 

Akamatsu’s on her left, her arms crossed over her chest like a shield against the rest of the world, a scowl playing on her lips and forehead screwed in a permanent frown. She takes it all in with a quiet seriousness, face ashen pale and eyes bright with some kind of unrecognizable, fervent determination that he can’t quite place. He remembers her to be quite outspoken but she remains remarkably quiet, staring ahead and serious. She’s one of the few who escaped the scratchy hospital clothes, a loose T-shirt hanging on her shoulders and black jeans covering her legs. A pair of white, ugly slippers is slipped on her feet and she taps her right foot on the floor impatiently as if waiting for permission to leave. 

Ryoma feels nothing when his eyes next slip to Tojo, any kind of emotion drowned out by the faint memory of water rushing to his nose, flooding his ears, burning in his throat. Her once well cared for hair is matted and unkempt and longer than he remembers, brushing against her jaw and curling inches above her shoulders. She’s clothed in a hospital gown that hugs her slim figure loosely, and a pair of gloves, most likely courtesy of one of the nurses. Gone is the air of effortless, dignified elegance he’s learned to associate with her, her eyes muddy and unfocused, not leaving her hands that she keeps folded in her lap. He knows the game continued normally after his death, reaching full six chapters in total, the way it usually does, so he assumes she must have faced the execution for his murder. 

It doesn’t make him feel better. 

Momota’s slumped in his wheelchair, held upright by the sheer determination alone, tiny droplets of sweat scattered over his brows and face twisted in a pained grimace he’s desperately trying to cover with a shaky smile. His once sticky hair now falls down on his face miserably and every now and then he opens his mouth as if to say something, make a comment or maybe to start an outburst, but each time he closes it after a while of moving his jaw uselessly as if he couldn’t figure out the words. He reminds him of a fish taken out of the water, rendered mute by shock or maybe the sheer absurdity of the situation. Either way, he remains silent, stealing occasional nervous glances at Harukawa and seemingly trying to break through the haze of his own thoughts. Ryoma’s been told he’s been the last one to be pulled out of the virtual clutches of the simulation, barely given any time to adjust, to  _ understand _ , before being ushered here along with the rest of them. He feels a pang of sympathy towards him. Within the first five hours since he woke up he’s been like an empty doll, unable to do anything more than blink and nod his head whenever it was expected from him, letting the nurses and doctors do whatever they wanted without any hint of resistance, too weak to protest, too weak to even  _ start _ to comprehend what’s happening, the whole world rendered as a swirling blur of colors, sounds and voices. He’s been given a few days to pull himself up into a broken shelf of who he used to be, bothered only by the doctors and nurses who assisted him at all times. He’s been offered a tablet to catch up with how the game went on with him gone but he declined, choosing to sort through the mess of his thoughts without any outside influence. He can’t imagine what Momota must be going through, having to face others not even a full twenty four hours after his awakening. 

_ Poor kid _ , he thinks and for once it’s genuine. He drags his eyes away from Momota’s face, allowing him his moment of weakness away from prying eyes. The astronaut’s always been kind to him, looking up to him — not down, never down, the way everyone else did — with his eyes glazed over with some sense of wonder and admiration he remembers from his old memories --  _ fake _ memories -- from the time he still lived up to his name, a bright star of Japanese tennis. 

Next to Momota, Iruma looks weirdly out of place, curled up on her chair and avoiding eye contact, thick bandages wrapped around her thin neck and hands curled into fists at her sides. A few sizes too big shirt falls on her shoulders and her shoes are missing, not even hospital slippers pulled over her feet. For the most part she’s timid and quiet and meek and Ryoma can’t help but wonder what happened to the boisterous, obnoxious  _ bitch _ he remembers back from the game. She looks like a ghost of who she used to be, a poor imitation with the eyes of the same shade of cloudy blue and long, curling hair but not similar in the slightest. There’s something disturbing about all of it, the difference so jarring that a part of him wishes she’d just  _ snap out of it already _ and break the tension with one of her tactless, insensitive remarks. 

Sitting across him Amami looks calm, a small smile frozen on his lips as he absorbs Shirogane’s words patiently, nodding his head occasionally as if agreeing with the points she makes or indicating that he understands what’s being told. He looks strangely out of place among the buzzing nervous energy the rest of them projects, air heavy with tension so thick they could cut right through it. He seems to take it all surprisingly well, accepting it with a peaceful expression of someone who’s been through it before, someone who’s going through the familiar, memorized motions. 

He’s a striking contrast to Gonta who keeps fidgeting in his chair, eyes darting between everyone’s faces and the door, a bundle of nervous energy tearing him from the inside. He looks like despite his broad posture he’s trying to make himself smaller, shoulders hunched low and long strands of hair casting shadows over his face. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here (which, frankly, could probably be said about all of them), ready to bolt out of his seat as soon as he’s given the permission to do so, kept there only by some gentleman’s obligation.

On his right, Angie smiles brilliantly, peaceful and cheerful and disgustingly sweet and Ryoma’s stomach twists in nervous anxiety just from looking at her. This is not the face of someone who’s gone through hell and died a miserable, useless death and there’s something alarming about the way she keeps herself, ever reliant on her imaginary god. She’s like a child unable to comprehend the seriousness of the situation, a ticking bomb of unpredictability and he wants to be nowhere close when (because it’s definitely  _ when _ and not if) it eventually explodes.

His gaze slips to the side and rest there for a longer while, a hollow echo of shock trapped in his chest when his eyes roam over Kiibo’s small figure. It’s like seeing him for the first time. He looks around the room, the familiar worried curve of a frown indicating he’s deep in thought reminds Ryoma of their first meeting. This is where the similarities end, though. Gone is the glint of metal limbs and all there’s left is squishy skin and a gentle gaze of tired eyes, soft and undeniably  _ human _ . It’s a challenge to tear his eyes away at first and when he’s seen him for the first time yesterday it took Ryoma a full minute to realize he’s staring, mesmerized by how much of a contrast there is between the Kiibo he remembers and the Kiibo who sits among them now. He’s one of the unlucky ones, still bound to a wheelchair, a nurse hovering somewhere in the background, ready to roll him out whenever the meeting comes to an end. His face doesn’t betray much, his limbs stiff and a wince flashing through his features whenever he moves and Ryoma feels an echo of sympathy somewhere at the back of his head. 

Chabashira and Shinguji sit next to each other and Ryoma doesn’t need to know any details to realize that something must have transpired between the two of them in the game after his death, something ugly. The air between them buzzes with electricity, Chabashira’s gaze grim and deadly, and Ryoma, who dealt with men twice as big as her and faced near death situations more than once, shudders under the intensity of the glare she aimed at Shinguji’s pale face, his cheeks sunken and hair plastered to his forehead. The white mask is pulled tight on his face, his face unreadable and posture taut and rigid.

“--I think that should be all,” Shirogane squints at the papers in her hands and it’s only then that Ryoma realizes he zoned out, losing track of her little speech or even when she started to speak again. “As I already mentioned, you are all required to attend mandatory therapy sessions, both individual and group ones, you will be given details once we finish with everyone’s physical check ups, everything will be scheduled afterwards. Most of you have to continue your physical therapy meetings until your doctors deem you well enough to stop. Team Danganronpa is also happy to inform you that they provide you with the best professionalists in their fields. As I assured Saihara-san before, they’re going to use their best efforts to get you the help you need and they have your well being in mind.”

Akamatsu snorts at the mention of Saihara’s name, loudly. Shirogane doesn’t say a word but her lips twitch. 

“I am sure you are all tired, especially those of you who were pulled out from the simulation last. Take your time to regain your strength and don’t hesitate to ask for help, everyone here will be happy to help you. The group therapy should start in the next few days. Until then, take some rest. We will also discuss the matter of, ah, your payment. But that’s a topic for another time.”

She lifts her head, her cold stare sliding across their faces. 

“Are there any questions?”

The silence that follows the question is deafening, some of them exchanging hesitant looks.

It’s Momota who eventually speaks up, voice hoarse from misuse, tired. “I’m sure we all have more questions,” he swallows loudly, glancing at the rest of them as if looking for backup, “but it might not be the best time to ask them.”

Gonta clears his throat and licks his lips, apparently encouraged by Momota’s admission. “Gonta thinks--n-no,  _ I _ think that Momota-kun is right,” he informs Shirogane and Ryoma’s almost impressed by the lack of tremor in his voice, despite his fidgety appearance, “we need time to think. It’s… It’s a lot to take in.” 

  
  


“Naturally,” Shirogane nods in faux understanding. “There’ll be a chance to ask your questions later so you can think about it for now and focus on your recovery. If that is all then you can all return to your rooms. There’s also a common room available for all of you, it will be open tomorrow and we encourage you to spend your time there and bond a little, I’m sure some of you,” her eyes slip away from Momota’s face and turn to Harukawa, her smile bordering on predatory, “want to catch up.”

Uh-oh.

Ryoma doesn’t miss the way Harukawa’s eyes narrow, her grip on the arms of the chair tightening, knuckles turning white. There’s a shadow of death in her eyes and in that moment, watching as she barely restrains herself from tackling Shirogane and scratching her eyes out, he wouldn’t be surprised if Shirogane had a death wish. 

“Well, if that’s all then I’ll be going,” chirps Shirogane, either not noticing Harukawa’s glare or choosing to ignore it. “If you wish to contact me I’ll always be close by.”

She’s almost by the door when Iruma seemingly gathers her courage and calls out after her, “Hey, Shirocunt!” 

Shirogane turns on her heels. “What is it, Iruma-san?”

“Where’s that traitor, Cockichi?” she spats as if his name’s poison on her tongue, “Is he one of Team Danganronpa’s filthy minions, too?”

For the first time that day, a professional artificial smile slips from Shirogane’s face, her expression suddenly blank and unreadable, her left eye twitching. Ryoma raises his head curiously, taken aback by her unexpected reaction and even from where he sits he can hear Iruma’s breath hitch.

Shirogane forces a smile back on her face, a faint caricature or the previous ones. 

“Ouma-kun,” she hesitates briefly but then clears her throat and starts again. “Ouma-kun couldn’t join us today. We’ve run into some, ah, technical problems when we attempted to pull him out of the game.”

There’s a hushed murmur of shocked concern that passes through the room, everyone suddenly a little more present, a little more alert. Across the room, Ryoma can see Iruma’s face turn white, shaking fists grasping at the edges of her hospital gown. 

“He’ll join us soon, I’m sure of it.”

With that parting message Shirogane leaves the room, long hair waving after her and the patter of her heels loud in the deadly silent room until she disappears around the corner. 

Ryoma closes his eyes and thinks about how he could kill for a smoke right now. 

**Author's Note:**

> My life is kind of a mess recently and writing this was actually... surprisingly soothing, I guess? But yeah, please be gentle with me, I haven't slept properly in over a week and have no idea what is going on :'D I could really use some positivity. 
> 
> The next chapter should be out soon, probably in the next 2 weeks.
> 
> Comments are very appreciated & thank you for reading!


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